


disrupt, corrupt, interrupt

by knowyourwayinthedark



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Guilt, M/M, Masochism, Punching, Shame, violence kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowyourwayinthedark/pseuds/knowyourwayinthedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Filled my own prompt on the kinkmeme, which was basically "Javert discovers his violence/getting beat up kink from getting punched in the face during the confrontation scene (musical version) and of course he is Javert and hates everything about this"</p>
<p>Some kind of weird amalgam of the musical, the 2012 movie, and the few snips of the book I've read so far.</p>
<p>Probably gonna have more chapters because hahhahahahah why is it so fun making Javert suffer why</p>
<p>also can be found at knowyourwayinthedark.tumblr.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	disrupt, corrupt, interrupt

Javert has been struck before. He knows the wild swinging right hooks of drunkards, the desperate and uncertain jabs of young men first caught thieving, the claws of women. He knows sticks and coshes and hidden, brutal knives. But he was flushed with triumph and had forgotten, it seemed, that the strength that made Valjean so distinctive was also the strength he could use against others, not just weights and overturned carts. When Valjean breaks free of the grip Javert has on his collar, disarms him, and shoves him away, all he feels is rage, not apprehension. When he tries to grab Valjean again, though, the man twists in his grasp and slams a powerful fist into the side of his face.

This is a blow like none other he has known before. All is darkness or brightness behind his eyes, he cannot tell; he cannot hear, cannot think, there is only the solid, brutal reality of his body, and the fist, and the incredible force that connected the latter to the former in that brief moment. Then the moment is over, the very teeth rattle in his jaw, pain blasts through his head. And nothingness.

When he awakens on the floor of the hospital, half his face seems to be pressed into some central ring of Hell. There is the taste of blood in his mouth where his upper lip gashed against his teeth. His left eye is swollen nearly shut. Javert tries to lever himself to his feet, but something clangs in his head, his limbs slip and he falls back, the impact jarring his neck, the pounding of blood now worsening the throbbing in his cheekbone and temple and jaw.

But it is nothing compared to the reality of his failure. His prisoner has escaped once again. He has been struck down. The pain ebbs somewhat, enough that he can stand and stagger to the doorway. He must raise the alarm. There must be a force mobilized to track down this criminal – find him – root him out, this Jean Valjean –

He manages to stumble to the station before he collapses completely.

Javert joins the men who are sent to find Valjean. The grimaces he makes at the pain in his head can easily be disguised as the grimace of the set and determined Inspector, and if none of his men can fully tell the difference, so much the better. The day progresses. No sign of the man is found.

They find an inn for the night and when he enters, he notices the washroom, the glint of light off a mirror. He does not look forward to seeing his face for the first time. His cheek feels twice its size and undoubtedly the colors of the rainbow are all present there, a cheerful testament; he is sure he is a ghastly sight judging from some of the looks he saw on his colleagues’ faces.

When he enters the washroom Javert’s suspicions are confirmed as he is greeted by mottling, black and blue, around his cheekbone and his eye, garish reddish purple at the edges; his eyelid and the upper left of his lip are still swollen, and speckled and splotched with red.

Javert raises his hand and touches his cheekbone lightly. The pain flares, and he grimaces. Everything is far too tender, he thinks. Too weak. He is the law but it seems the law is nearly nothing next to Valjean’s right arm. Javert thinks on Monsieur Madeleine – Valjean – 24601 – that man had hidden, cloaked himself in the garments of men he was not, shrouded the thick shoulders and corded forearms and powerful back that marked him as the strongest of the brutes on the chain gang, the one Javert ought to have remembered more clearly. That strength. He finds himself touching the bruise again, recalling the powerful fist that left it there, running his mind like a caress over the thought of Valjean’s arm – He jerks his hand away, turns resolutely from the mirror, and splashes water on his face. Sleep will calm him.

But lying in bed that night the thoughts return. Javert lies there, and feels, and hates. He cannot crush down his desires now, no, not with the hot pain of the bruise keeping him awake, rooting him in his body, mocking him. A sign of the mark Valjean has left on him. He is horribly conscious of his flesh. Valjean knocked him down from his perch and back into his body, brought him down to his level. Just a creature, animal, composed of a baser nature, muscle, bone, and blood. Where thought, restraint, the _law_ does not matter, just the brute struggle, force in one’s hands, the harsh push and pull of bodies –

Oh, no, he thinks. No, no, absolutely not. But his mind has flicked from one thought to another as quickly as the snapping of a flag. Valjean’s body. Valjean’s hand. The fist that struck him. The movement of muscles under skin. That hand striking him, again and again, slapping him across the face, until – Javert feels the gash his teeth left inside his mouth. His tongue is touching it. There is an iron taste to it, a bitter little thing, the flavor of pain. He imagines it bleeding again. He imagines being back on the floor of the hospital, brought low, and Valjean kissing his mouth, the mouth he made bleed, the mouth that now opens and lets out a horrible noise. It takes Javert a moment to realize it is horror but also pleasure, and of course that makes it infinitely worse.

He tightens his jaw, which turns out to be another mistake, because that reawakens the pain in the battered places on his temple and cheekbone, so he lifts a hand to his face without thinking and his fingers brush the bruise. Coolness on heat, and the touch makes him shiver. Something gutters down from the pit of his chest. He thinks on Madeleine – Valjean’s fingers. How they were rough, belying a hidden past to that perfect saintly mayor. Another image leaps into his mind: rough fingers on his cheek, Valjean’s, not his, touching the bruise as Javert kneels before him. He wonders if the man would touch it with all the tender mockery of the mayor who was his superior, who watched him debase himself, falter and fall. He wonders if he would be touched by 24601, instead, a large calloused thumb pressing the mark that hard knuckles had left, and another uncomfortable quiver runs through his body. This should not be happening, not because of a bruise, a bruise caused by a criminal no less, but his cock is hardening. Javert knows all the things he has done before to escape his traitorous body will not serve him now. He is at its mercy.

_Damned, damned, damned_ , pounds in his ears, the rush of his blood, the blood pulsing in his cock and throbbing under the discolored welt on his face. He shuts his eyes and presses the fingers of his left hand to the bruise. It hurts. There are different hurts in different places. It is most apparent at the points where the bone is nearest the skin. Merely brushing the bruise at his eye is painful. The pain uncurls something horribly pleasant in his gut. Javert almost lets out another moan but clamps his lips shut just in time. It is obvious now, though: he presses the bruise again, only on the outer edge of his cheekbone this time, and his cock twitches, becomes even harder, then Valjean is _there_ , suddenly, there in his mind, and all his defenses are down. The fantasies flood in.

Valjean grabbing him on the hurt side of his face, jamming his cock in his mouth, taking him and all the while applying pressure to the tender flesh there. Valjean clouting him across the face then kissing his bloodied mouth. Valjean locking his arms around him so tightly he cannot move, trapping him secure as a butterfly to a board. Valjean slamming him to the floor, belly-down, rutting against him, pinning his hands to the ground. Valjean pushing him, shoving him roughly, digging brutal fingers into his ribs, twisting his arm. Valjean punching him again, and again. And again. Javert’s fingers push against his cheek again and he does not even realize he has been rubbing himself over his clothes this whole time, not even bothering to push his hand between his flies. He slides his hand over the head of his cock, gives a shaky press of his fingers against the bruise on his face, and comes. And he knows – once the whiteness begins to fade from behind his eyes and his breathing slowly returns to normal – it was not the hand under the covers that pushed him over the edge.

Sleep comes horribly easy that night.

**Author's Note:**

> Les Mis has made me fannish to a degree I haven't been since like 2010? So this is a) my first fic in literally years and b) the first porny thing I've written ever and c) probably like the third actual fic I've written and yeah uh
> 
> be kind???
> 
> idk man I just really want to work out my frustrated esoteric sexual preferences by writing porn and this fandom is great for that


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